


Going Under

by kopperblaze



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kopperblaze/pseuds/kopperblaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://www.filmandtvnow.com/richard-armitage-in-conversation-interview/">This</a> interview pushed all my hurt/comfort buttons, so this story happened. </p>
<p>"In the shower the water washes away the blood, but Proctor sticks to him like glue. There are parts of him that Richard is sure he’ll never be able to wash away; parts of him that Richard will take to his grave."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Under

He can’t even say that he’s surprised anymore that it happens. On his knees, retching painfully even though his body has nothing left to give, Richard fleetingly thinks that this is as far away from the supposed glitz and glam of the theatre as one can get. In a dingy bathroom with ugly yellow lightning, vomiting until your throat is raw, holds no glory. 

When his stomach eventually stops roiling, Richard sits back on his haunches and takes a measured breath. It hurts to swallow, but he’s used to that by now. The table in his dressing room looks like he raided a pharmacy, all his colourful pills helping him make it through another show. Richard is nothing if not an expert at coping and creating illusions. And isn’t that what the theatre is all about? Illusions and make-belief. 

He gives himself a few more moments to breathe and let his shaking limbs calm, his muscles uncoil, before he forces himself to his feet. He rinses his mouth out and avoids looking into the mirror over the sink because he’s not sure who he’ll see, Richard or Proctor. He’s not sure which one he’s afraid to find staring back at him either. 

He grabs a paper towel to dry his hands, then squares his shoulders and takes one last breath before opening the bathroom door. Backstage is the usual madness during the break, people bustling about, the corridor full of voices. It’s easy to slip to his dressing room unnoticed. When the door closes the voices are cut off and Richard is left to silence once more. It buzzes in his ears, too loud and too unsettling, but he knows that he’d be unable to listen to music or surround himself with people right now. John Proctor is still lurking beneath his skin and it’s times like these that Richard doesn’t know whose thoughts are running through his mind. He tries not to think about it, tries to let himself rest as he places pills in his mouth and takes sips of water, the same mechanical moves over and over. The water soothes his throat a little, soothes the jagged, razor-sharp edges his skin has been torn into. 

Before he knows it the bell rings, alerting everyone to the imminent end of the break. From there on out things are always a blur. Even in the moments when he isn’t on stage he can’t shake Proctor, the man taking over and leaving Richard watching from behind glass, his thoughts spiralling. By the time he bows and the roaring applause mingles with the rushing of blood in his ears Richard feels as if he’s taken a very long ride on a roller coaster. 

In the shower the water washes away the blood, but Proctor sticks to him like glue. There are parts of him that Richard is sure he’ll never be able to wash away; parts of him that Richard will take to his grave. All of his roles leave something with him and some days he is afraid that eventually there will be no room left for Richard. 

His clothes feel wrong against his skin, foreign and scratchy like the wooly sweaters his grandmother used to give him for Christmas. Rolling his shoulders like it’ll make his skin fit him again, Richard eventually feels steady enough on his feet to leave the dressing room. He puts on a smile for the people waiting. It still stuns him that they are here for him, part of him forever afraid that he will be dismantled as the impostor he is. He smiles and let’s their smiles and excitement be balm for his soul. Better to soak it up while he can, before one day people will realise that he isn’t good enough. 

It’s the easy part of the evening, the voices and faces at stagedoor occupying his mind. The difficult part begins when he’s in the cab home, where nobody is waiting for him. He’s alone with his thoughts then and experience has shown that that’s never a good thing. 

Head lolling back against the seat Richard watches the city pass by through heavily-lidded eyes. He knows better than to give into exhaustion. He still has the stairs to his flat to climb. The inside of the cab smells like artificial flowers, an air freshener shaped like a tree cheerfully dangling from the rearview mirror. Richard watches it for the longest time, letting it fill the space of his thoughts. Simple things are the best to focus on. Better to zone out watching the swaying and swinging than allowing his thoughts to run berserk and drive him out of his mind. 

The apartment is dark and quiet, smelling dusty and empty. Richard drops his keys on the table and rolls his shoulders again before shrugging out of his coat and shuffling to the kitchen. He only turns on the lamp in the living room, preferring the soft glow over the starkness of the overhead light. Putting a bag of chamomile tea in the first mug he finds - a gift from Aidan who found it hilarious to present Richard with a mug with Kili’s face on it - he waits for the kettle to boil, drumming his fingers against the tabletop as he studies Kili’s face. He has wondered before, if it’s the same for other actors. He can’t see it though, can’t see carefree and brilliant Aidan eaten alive by monsters inside his chest. Somewhere in his cupboard is a mug with Fili’s face, gifted by Aidan as well, and while Erebor’s heir may well be plagued by demons, Dean isn’t. 

Once his tea is ready Richard sits down on the couch and turns on the TV to chase away the silence congesting his lungs. He sips and stares at the flickering images, his chest still vibrating with Proctor’s screams. It’s moments like these that his loneliness is most painful. The moments when Aidan would fill the space with mindless rambling and easy laughter, all for the sole purpose of distracting him. The moments when Dean would order takeaway and try to explain Rugby to him, his limbs entangled with Richard’s like he can pull him back from the abyss inside himself if he only clings hard enough. 

But Dean is on the other side of the world and Aidan is filming in Cornwall and Richard would loathe to interrupt either of them with a phonecall where he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. 

By some strange coincidence Richard is the luckiest man in the world (and oh won’t all that luck disappear when one day they’ll all see him as the impostor he is?) and his phone rings an hour later, when his tea is cold and his eyes sore from staring at the screen. 

“Hello?” He tries to sound normal, swallowing against his sore throat. 

“Rich!” Aidan’s happy voice drifts through the line. Richard can hear people in the background, so Aidan must still be on set, or out with his castmates. Gradually the voices fade though and there’s the sound of a door closing, then silence. 

“Rich, hey.” 

Richard closes his eyes and some of the tension drops from his shoulders. 

“How are you?” 

“I’m fine.” It’s the same spiel every time. For all that Richard is supposed to be an actor he’s shit at pretending. Or his boyfriends just know him too well. Aidan doesn’t comment on it though and instead launches into an animated story about what happened on set, and has Richard seen the picture of Batman Dean sent a few minutes ago? 

Richard curls up on the couch and keeps the phone pressed to his hear like a lifeline. Closing his eyes he exhales and allows Aidan to pull Richard back from where he’s buried beneath Proctor’s weight.


End file.
